


Deadlines

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, ruined designer menswear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 12:10:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11126730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: Theodore has a deadline to meet, but Draco has other ideas for them.A bit of fluff and smut in which designer menswear is ruined and deadlines are disregarded in favor of desk sex.Written in honor of Draco's birthday, even though it has nothing to do with Draco's birthday.





	Deadlines

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 37th birthday, Draco!!! You look nothing like how you're portrayed in the movies.
> 
> Love and heart emojis and gratitude go out to my bestie and partner in literary crime, Colorfulstabwound.

Nobody hates deadlines more than Theodore Nott, except perhaps Draco Malfoy. Draco hates them for reasons that are vastly different from Theodore’s reasons.

 

The close proximity of a deadline can be measured with fair accuracy by the state of Theodore’s desk. Currently, the repurposed steel slab by the smutty windows is strewn with several mismatched china cups holding the dregs of very strong coffee, pencils bearing unmistakable teeth marks, stacks of manuscript beneath plates of partially eaten cucumber sandwiches serving as makeshift paperweights, two ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, and a rather weary owl named Helvetica perched on a framed photograph of Draco looking smug in a blue Dior suit, all crowding around an antique Smith & Corona typewriter. It could be inferred that the draft of Theodore’s latest work of fiction, tentatively titled _The Death of Prudence Was Not Mourned_ , is due to his editor within a week.

 

Theodore unrolls another type-written sheet from the ancient machine, adds it to a thin stack of finished pages, folds them with as much care as time affords, which isn’t much at all, and affixes the package to Helvetica’s ankle. “And that’s chapter twenty-two. Off you go, love,” he sends her away briskly, with not so much as a stroke of a finger over her feathered head.

 

She’d squawk indignantly if she didn’t know that Theodore was under pressure to finish, but Helvetica is rather astute for a bird. She dutifully flies off through the open panel in the window to deliver the sheet to Theodore’s muggle-born assistant, Riona, who will then transcribe the typed words onto her laptop computer.

 

“You know, Theodore, you’d probably finish so much sooner if you’d just learn to use one of those muggle _flip-flop_ computers,” comes Draco’s unsolicited opinion from somewhere vaguely in the sitting area of the converted industrial loft that Theodore calls both _home_ and _work space_.

 

“ _Lap top_ ,” Theodore corrects Draco, without ever looking up from his typewriter as he loads it with another sheet of paper.

 

“Whatever it’s called,” Draco mutters dismissively, and Theodore can just sense his lover’s eyes rolling. “You’re so insistent on working with a muggle publisher and writing stories for a predominantly muggle audience, I don’t see why you can’t use muggle technology.”

 

Theodore closes his eyes, as if shutting them tightly will somehow keep his current thought in his head rather than letting a response to Draco prevail. He hazards to give a quick answer, hoping it’s enough to silence Draco. “But I _am_ using muggle technology.”

 

Draco snorts derisively, “From another century. Hardly counts.”

 

Theodore sighs exasperatedly, the protagonists’ dialogue he’d been conjuring in his mind vanishing. He curses under his breath with frustration, quietly enough not to be heard, “Godric be damned, Draco, I swear to fucking Merlin…”

 

“I’m just saying. You work very inefficiently,” Draco admonishes haughtily, “I’m sure your editor hates to be kept waiting as much as I do.”

 

Theodore won’t bother to explain to Draco, yet again, how using an old typewriter is part of his writing process – how the physical act of pressing down mechanical keys allows his fingers to keep with the pace of the carefully crafted words flowing through his head – how modern computers make him haphazardly splatter words on the screen like a Jackson Pollack painting.

 

No, Theodore won’t deign to remind Draco of this. Instead, Theodore will tell him off. He looks up from his typewriter, glares at Draco from across the open floor plan, and intones flatly, “Then don’t wait.”

 

His words are meant to drive Draco away, if only temporarily, long enough for Theodore to get some work done. If Theodore weren’t secure in Draco’s love for him, he wouldn’t have said this. But he knows that Draco will disapparate with an offended huff, only to return in the late evening for a nightcap.

 

But Draco doesn’t leave. Instead, a smirk slowly spreads across his face and a sparkle of mischief glimmers in his grey eyes. “Very well,” Draco replies, too casually for it to be truly casual.

 

Draco rises from the leather sofa, slips off his charcoal jacket, and neatly drapes the tailored garment over the back of the couch, indicating he has no intention of leaving. And as Draco makes his approach, the heels of his polished wing tips strutting confidently across the concrete floor, Theodore begins to realize what _not waiting_ means to Draco – and really, Theodore should have known better.

 

Theodore bites back an amused grin. He had always found Draco’s sense of entitlement to be rather sexy, especially when Draco was feeling entitled to Theodore. By the time Draco reaches Theodore and wedges himself between the desk and the chair, any pretense of being cross with Draco disappears at the drop of a feather-light kiss on Theodore’s crooked half-smile.

 

“I’ve got a tight deadline, Draco,” Theodore reminds him, devoid of any real objection, nearly whispering against Draco’s lips.

 

Draco’s only response is a darkening smirk and a patronizing _mm-hm_.  

 

He steadies himself with a hand on Theodore’s shoulder, barely shifting any weight, with the control and perfect form of a ballet dancer at the _barre_. His stance is such that the bend of his knees effectively places him astride Theodore’s lap.

 

Theodore feels the shape and heat of his lover through denim and cotton, feels his own body betraying the thinly veiled secret of his waking desire, feels his pulse flutter with anticipation, and knows that he is being irreversibly hooked into Draco’s game. The slow, seductive roll of Draco’s hips makes Theodore twitch in his pants and resign to the fact that he’s already lost.

 

“I’ve got a tight deadline too,” Draco drawls, grinning devilishly, “ _Very_ tight.”

 

“So it would seem,” Theodore purrs in agreement, shifting in his seat, succumbing all too easily to Draco’s persuasive movements. “But I think you can squeeze me in.” His own grin mirrors all of Draco’s wickedness and then some.

 

“I’ve an opening before tea if you’d like to, er… _fill_ it,” Draco replies, barely containing an amused snort, likely realizing that they’ve taken this innuendo precariously close to the line between flirtation and mockery.

 

As much as Theodore is enjoying this exchange, he can’t help but unsheathe the unrefined edge from within his intellectual exterior to be more direct and vulgar. “Why don’t you just clear your schedule so I can fuck you, hm?” Theodore suggests, as he lovingly folds his arms behind Draco’s neck.

 

Draco glances away, pensive, taking an inordinate amount of time to consider Theodore’s proposal. “I could... But the question is, can _you_ clear your schedule so that you can fuck me?” Draco’s petulance becomes negligible when he grinds down, subtly but purposefully, on Theodore’s lap.

 

What Theodore wants is to grab Draco by the hips and impale him utterly right then and there. He is fairly certain it is Draco’s aim as well. But giving in to the impulsive whims of Draco, a man of leisure and independent wealth, a man who has never had an occupation other than _shopping_ , would be giving in at the expense of Theodore’s busy workday. Draco really needs to respect the fact that Theodore has an actual job… or _Theodore_ will have no hope of respecting the fact that he has an actual job. It is difficult enough as it is to hold himself accountable to his editor and publisher.

 

Theodore takes a slow, thoughtful breath through gritted teeth and shakes his head. “I don’t know. Is it really worth getting on Magda’s bad side? She can be such an arsehole when I’m behind schedule.”

 

In this moment, Theodore really doesn’t give two shits about being late with his manuscript. He justifies his blatant disregard for deadlines with the fact that he’s been working his arse off to get the book to this point and could use a bit of a break, especially since his _flow_ has already been interrupted. He won’t tell Draco this. It’s much too fun to play this game.

 

But as the master of his own game, and as the most cunning of Slytherins, Draco probably already knows Theodore has resigned to balk at his deadline. It is evident in the way Draco dances effortlessly between teasing and seduction. He leans forward, the slight shift inadvertently (or not) bringing the tent in Theodore’s trousers to nestle in the furrow of his seat. He whispers at the side of Theodore’s neck, just below his ear, “Your muse wants to be indulged. Call it research for a future project. A worthy investment.”

 

“I still need convincing,” Theodore says, his words feigning skepticism even while he presses his lap firmly against Draco. It is merely an invitation, a _provocation_ if you will, for Draco to put all of his best moves into play.

 

Draco scoffs quietly and quirks an overconfident grin that says, _I’ll convince you and then some_. Theodore rather likes that grin.

 

Draco takes undressing just as seriously as dressing, as his obscenely expensive collection of designer menswear dictates. Conversely, Theodore takes fiendish delight in disrespecting Draco’s tailored shirts and bespoke suits. And such is the part of the game in which Theodore painfully refrains from ripping open a crisply pressed Paul Smith, while Draco pain _stakingly_ ritualizes the act of removing said shirt.

 

Diamond and onyx cufflinks are the first to go, slipping easily through silken slits in white French cuffs. With a small gesture and unspoken, wandless magic, the beloved accessories are nestled away safely within Theodore’s walk-in closet inside a drawer that has become a repository for Draco’s things.

 

Next to go in this ostentatious ceremony would be the necktie. A whispered spell produces Draco’s wand, for magic such as this requires more precision. The tip of his wand traces delicately over the perfect Windsor knot in the embroidered silk, while an incantation seduces the fabric to come undone. Now untied, it drapes leisurely from his neck.

 

Theodore feels compelled to pull the tie through the starched collar and discard it irreverently onto the floor. Under different circumstances, Theodore would act on this compulsion. He’s been known to do so with brutish fervor in a fit of desperate need. But art can’t be rushed. And this agonizingly slow strip tease is performance art at its finest.

 

When it comes time for pearlescent buttons to be maneuvered gently through their shirtfront holes, Theodore isn’t sure he can remain composed for all seven. He knows Draco likes to perform this part by hand. The first one undone reveals Draco’s jugular notch, which, like most of his curvilinear details, is fairly pronounced. As with most of Draco’s fairly pronounced curvilinear details, Theodore wants to map it with his tongue.

 

Draco glances at Theodore with a demure nod and those silver eyes are enough of a distraction that Theodore doesn’t realize that the second button is under and through until Draco moves on to the next.

 

The third one undone discloses that Draco isn’t wearing a singlet. This conspicuous departure from Draco’s usual mode of dress leads Theodore to question Draco’s motivation for coming to his flat in the first place. _Just dropping in for breakfast_ , _my arse._

 

When the fourth undone exposes a wisp of lucent, blond hair, Theodore begins to lose it.

 

Then Draco bites the corner of his bottom lip, still demurring like a hesitant virgin, and slowly runs the length of his opened shirt panels with teasing fingers. And Theodore nearly loses his shit, even before the shirt gapes, just so, to surrender a glimpse of marble smooth skin and subtly sculpted musculature.

 

Theodore reaches up with intentions of slipping his eager hands inside Draco’s shirt. But Draco swiftly thwarts him with fingers shackling his wrists. He forces Theodore’s arms up and pins his hands to the window behind the desk. The action places Draco in closer alignment with Theodore, such that Theodore can steal a taste of Draco’s collarbone. Masculine brine and London grime and someone else’s expensive cologne are the flavors of the day that tell Theodore where his lover has been. Theodore rather likes it when Draco is still dirty from the previous night’s debauchery.

 

“Clive Christian – 1872. You spent the night at Blaise’s,” Theodore deduces quietly, having recognized his friend’s distinctive scent, not the least bit jealous, but instead darkly amused. “You fucking tart,” he declares, pretending to be scandalized.

 

Draco catches Theodore’s bottom lip between his teeth then makes a sound akin to a derisive laugh. “Clever, clever,” he affirms, melodic and patronizing, then justifies last night’s dalliance with an unapologetic, “You were busy.”

 

Theodore disciplines him with a literal tongue-lashing, searching Draco’s mouth for traces of sin left behind. There is a hint of Ogden’s Reserve and an imagined tinge of another man’s essence underlying the taste of spearmint freshening potion – all conjure filthy fantasies of Draco on his knees for that one friend he had never been able to crack. He can even hear the wet, rapturous sounds Draco would make with a formidable cock in his mouth as muffled bass lines vibrate the grimy walls of a dance club bathroom stall. Theodore’s investigation (and runaway imagination) leaves both he and Draco kiss-bruised, breathless, and hard in their pants.

 

Draco suddenly pulls away, and Theodore reflexively moves toward the lost source of pleasure, only to be shoved more firmly into his seatback.

 

“You’re too easily distracted,” Draco criticizes Theodore, soliciting a disappointed groan.

 

Theodore’s overt neediness puts a cruel smirk on Draco’s face. “Do try to pay attention,” Draco instructs without having to raise his voice, as he returns to the task of undoing the sixth button.

 

Once it’s undone, Draco’s navel peeks through, and Theodore swallows hard in anticipation.

 

Draco’s smug grin broadens as he twists the seventh and final button with drawn-out, cruel delight until it is released through the hole. He knows he has just exposed one of Theodore’s favorite parts – that blond trail leading down from the navel, disappearing into Draco’s trousers.

 

Draco leans back, rests his hands on the desk behind him, still smiling that self-satisfied grin. The way he reclines and stares at Theodore from behind a fan of lashes, his shirt hanging open, his necktie dangling without purpose, his torso exposed and begging to be touched, his erection tenting the front of his tailored trousers – makes Theodore openly moan with appreciation. Draco is the perfect picture of a gentleman undone.

 

“May I?” Theodore asks with more courtesy than he really possesses in this moment, as his hands snake along the top of Draco’s thighs, creeping towards Draco’s leather belt.

 

“Absolutely not,” Draco scoffs quietly, “You’ve no respect for Salvatore Ferragamo.”

 

“Whoever he is, he can suck my cock,” Theodore declares, irreverently swiping the pad of his thumb across that name engraved upon the gold belt buckle at Draco’s waist.

 

Draco gasps as he snatches Theodore’s hand away and drops it just as swiftly with disgust. “Bastard. You’ve left fingerprints on the buckle,” he accuses.

 

While Draco is distractedly buffing out the alleged fingerprints, Theodore takes the opportunity to summon his wand in order to take care of Draco’s belt. With a swish of Theodore’s wand, the buckle makes a pleasant, metallic clink as it opens. The leather hisses as it slides through the belt loops of Draco’s trousers.

 

With wand in hand, Draco regains command of his belt and directs it to slap Theodore’s shoulder punitively, but not severely.

 

“Arsehole,” Theodore gasps, indignantly glaring at the offending, animated leather belt before flicking his wand, sending poor Salvatore Ferragamo retreating sinuously like an admonished snake.

 

Draco pouts after the slithering accessory, expressing more sympathy towards an exiled designer belt than towards his impatient lover.

 

Theodore palms the waning bulge in Draco’s lap and coos, showing no real sympathy of his own, “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you _want_ to keep slapping me with your belt?”

 

Draco sighs softly with pleasure in the absence of real regret, “I suppose I’ll have to wait until Thursday.” They share a low, quiet chuckle over the inside joke.

 

Theodore feels Draco regaining firmness at his touch, feels the shape of Draco’s cock defining itself within the confines of custom clothing, feels Draco grinding subtly against him to achieve more sweet friction. His thumb finds the hidden crest of Draco’s cockhead and firmly traces the distinct ridge circling it.

 

With trousers tailored so impeccably to Draco’s precise measurements, there is very little room for such exponential growth. And so Theodore knows that Draco must be uncomfortably hard. The smallest, nearly imperceptible whimper is Draco’s only hint at discomfort.

 

Draco reclines once more against the edge of the desk to afford himself the proper angle to unhook the fastening of his trousers and to pull down the zipper – both of which are done with utmost care and respect for the integrity of his clothes and the delicate skin of his cock – for it is revealed, to Theodore’s devastating delight, that Draco isn’t wearing pants beneath his trousers.

 

With breathy reverence, Theodore affirms, “You _bloody_ tart,” more ardently than the last time. He’s too distracted by the plume of soft, blond curls to admonish Draco for possibly leaving his underpants at Blaise’s flat.

 

Draco rises from Theodore’s lap. Theodore would mourn the loss of warmth, but he knows what’s coming next. Draco hooks his thumbs into the top of his waistband and slowly, _slowly_ , too _fucking_ slowly, pushes down his trousers until his cock springs forth from its tailor-made confines.

 

Theodore watches raptly as Draco takes his blushing erection into his hand and fists it with unhurried, controlled fervor, making every stroke and twist a lascivious inspiration – a sensual provocation. He finally reacquaints his hands with Draco’s skin as he splays his fingers over that softly chiseled torso lurking behind the curtains of Draco’s shirt panels. Lips follow suit, starting gently at Draco’s faintly downy chest, continuing with growing relish down Draco’s abdomen along Theodore’s favorite line, until his mouth closes wetly over the weeping head of Draco’s cock.

 

Hands move at their own volition to find the perfect swell of Draco’s backside, which Draco takes as an invitation to thrust his hips forward, effectively helping his cock down Theodore’s throat. The intrusion is not unwelcome, despite what that slight gag might lead one to believe. Theodore moans rapturously around Draco’s girth to alleviate any doubt that he might want Draco to thoroughly fuck his face.

 

Theodore feels fingers threading lovingly through his hair and knows his lover is pleased with him. So he takes that cock with the prowess and enthusiasm of a sought-after whore, working it with his tongue and his teeth and his pursed lips just the way Draco likes it – slow, hot, vicious, and so fucking wet. And as Draco begins to clench his fingers around raven strands, either to assert some sort of perceived dominance, or as a reflex of mounting pleasure, Theodore’s scalp stings painfully.

 

Theodore responds to the pain by clamping his fingers into Draco’s pert flesh, inwardly delighted by the thought of leaving claw marks on Draco’s arse. Draco retaliates with a particularly harsh upward thrust, engaging Theodore’s gag reflexes with a vulgar sound.

 

“I love it when you choke on my cock,” Draco murmurs with cool amusement, and Theodore is somehow concurrently affronted and pleased with himself.

 

Theodore hadn’t noticed Draco had already toed out of his wingtips, had stepped out of his trousers, and had carefully secured them both away. It only becomes apparent when Draco easily mounts the chair like a stepstool and rests a knee on the window ledge behind Theodore’s head, affording him a more advantageous angle for fucking Theodore’s mouth. Thank Merlin for the soot-smeared windows, or all of Southend London would be treated to an eyeful right now.

 

Not that windows had ever necessitated modesty before. In fact, Theodore thinks Draco rather enjoys the prospect of unsuspecting Londoners on the street far below gazing up to find him feeding his prick to his ravenous lover – not because Draco is an exhibitionist, but because he’s the sort of man who likes to inspire envy, and the intensity with which Theodore loves him, evident in how ardently he takes Draco’s cock, is certainly enviable.

 

The back of Theodore’s head plunks sonorously against the industrial glass, propelled by the force of a ruthlessly delivered thrust. And it is perhaps because Theodore knows Draco loves him with equal intensity that he encourages Draco to take such violent liberties with him.

 

Another resonant thud vibrates the glass, letting Theodore know that Draco’s fists are braced against the window. “Oh _fuck_ ,” comes a blissfully pained exultation, followed by a number of jabs at his throat in such quick succession that Theodore fears he might _actually_ choke – that idea thrills him, such is his deepest, darkest fantasies of erotic asphyxiation, though never in his kinkiest dreams had he ever envisioned being suffocated like _this_.

 

Panic and desperate rhythm and dull nails digging into hips reach a dramatic crescendo as the bitter sweet taste of hot spunk bursts over Theodore’s tongue with an aria of unbridled, unintelligible praise sailing over his head, vibrating the window in its rusty panes.

 

“ _Fuck_ , you’re so bloody good,” Draco proclaims, drawing out each word with a hitched breath as he rides out the final spasms of his release.

 

When Draco finally withdraws, Theodore can finally swallow and take a much needed deep breath. “Sweet bloody Salazar,” he swears in amazement, dabbing an errant drop of come from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. He gazes up at Draco with only the gleam in his cerulean blue eyes divulging his love and admiration, in contrast to his words. “You’re a fucking _brute_.”

 

Before Draco can answer for himself, Theodore grabs him by the loose ends of the necktie still hanging from his shirt collar and pulls him down as if reining him in. “Come here,” Theodore commands, quiet but firm. Draco complies and already knows what Theodore wants. He sinks back down to Theodore’s lap and kisses him hard, sweeping his tongue inside of Theodore’s mouth, greedily lapping up any trace of himself.

 

Draco loves it when he can taste himself on Theodore’s mouth, ensuring that he’s left his mark on Theodore in every way – his scars on Theodore’s body and his essence on Theodore’s tongue.

 

Theodore murmurs lazily into the kiss, “You taste so fucking good.”

 

Draco mumbles contentedly against Theodore’s lips, going boneless across his lap, “I know I do.”

 

Theodore embraces the pale, beautiful, wretched creature curled up in his arms, in awe of how lovely Draco is when he’s most vulnerable, astounded by how deeply he can fall further in love. He brushes a wayward strand of platinum fringe from Draco’s sweaty brow and kisses his forehead. “You know how much I love you, yeah?”

 

“Mm-hm,” Draco nearly whispers, too spent for sarcastic banter.

 

The back of curved fingers reverently caresses Draco’s still-ruddy cheeks. Another kiss blesses the top of Draco’s head. Theodore asks, this time speaking with a slight, seductive undertone beneath his melodic timbre, “You know I need to fuck you now, yeah?”

 

Slowly rousing from his afterglow, Draco intones shrewdly, “Mmmm-hmmm,” humming his consent. He unfolds himself and straddles Theodore’s lap with renewed purpose.

 

Theodore is suspicious of Draco’s impossibly short refractory period and distantly wonders what sort of illicit potions he might have shared with Blaise last night.

 

He takes up his wand again to hastily clear his cluttered desk, causing papers to fall from untidy piles and plates to tumble onto the rug. His beloved Smith and Corona however, is set carefully aside to a safe corner, and Draco ceases the slow grind on Theodore’s lap to smugly take the typewriter’s place on the desk. Triumphant, Draco sits upon his reclaimed throne having ousted Theodore’s current project quite literally.

 

Theodore is quick to wipe that arrogant smirk off Draco’s mouth, pressing a kiss to it with renewed venom, curling his fingers around the panels of Draco’s shirt, intent on wrenching it from his body.

 

Draco is still defensive of his favorite shirt and protests with a nip aptly taken at Theodore’s lip. “Mind the Paul Smith.”

 

“Would you rather I wrinkle it when I lay you down on the desk and fuck you?” Theodore asks facetiously, raising a brow at Draco.

 

Draco gives a sidelong glance, considers it, and rises to this purported challenge. “Perhaps I would,” he asserts, leering suggestively at Theodore.

 

As Theodore watches curiously, perplexed, Draco neatly folds his sleeves at the elbows and hazards to lean back across the tabletop, showing no intention of removing his shirt or his tie.

 

“Do you mean for me to quite literally tear that thing off your hot body?” Theodore guesses.

 

Draco replies with a roll of his eyes, “No, you dolt,” then drawls lowly with a deviant smirk, “I quite literally want you to fuck me in my Paul Smith.”

 

Theodore can’t help but laugh in disbelief and shake his head amusedly at Draco in all of his entitled, spoiled, decadently lavish splendor - lounging on the desk, waiting to be fucked, somehow retaining effortless, refined style when sporting only an open shirt, a loose cobalt blue tie to match his lover’s eyes, and a persistent hard-on.

 

Theodore nestles himself between Draco’s parted legs. “I don’t mind sharing you with Blaise, but I’m not sure I want to share you with Paul Smith,” he teases, softly smoothing down the front of Draco’s shirt. He takes up an end of the tie and lets the silk glide up and down between his fingers. “And I’m not sure I want to share you with…”

 

“Burberry, Prorsum Collection,” Draco names it with casual ease.

 

Theodore attempts to distract Draco with his mouth as he slides the shirt behind his shoulders. The garments hang, still clinging to their owner like desperate, scorned lovers. And Theodore thinks he rather likes this look on Draco, perhaps almost as much as Draco completely naked. He consecrates a bare shoulder with loving, wet kisses and begins to feel what Draco must feel as fingers weave through wrinkles of fabric cascading at Draco’s back – luxurious cotton, smooth and pliant as flesh but cool to the touch, gliding against skin like a soft caress.

 

Draco slips his hands into the worn out jersey of Theodore’s vintage band t-shirt, treating the fabric with equal reverence, knowing this is as much a part of who Theodore is as Draco’s designer dress shirts are a part of him. “Keep this on,” Draco whispers. Theodore nods with understanding.

 

Still, he’s desperate for skin-to-skin contact and doesn’t hesitate with his jeans and pants, quickly shoving them down to the floor with a hasty shimmy. The soft hem of his t-shirt tickles pleasantly as it brushes his cock. A desperate hand reaches for him and curls firmly around his erection, betraying just how badly Draco had been in need of him. Theodore bites his lip and moans, hypersensitive and equally starved for Draco’s touch.

 

Draco feeds a thumb into Theodore’s mouth and Theodore generously lubricates it. When Draco’s hand returns to Theodore’s cock, that wetness finds its way to the head of his prick, and Theodore shudders with want upon each upward stroke. Theodore reaches down to lavish Draco with the same treatment, letting their erections slide against one another.

 

Soon, they both find themselves spit-slicked and lubricated enough for Theodore to begin courting Draco’s entrance. Murmured praises and reverence paid with a worshipful, dexterous tongue have seduced Draco to open enough to allow Theodore to breech him. He hooks his arms under Draco’s thighs, pulls him to the very edge of the desk, and rests one long, elegant leg on his shoulder.

 

Limbs twine and angles fall into place within curves, as they fit their bodies together like perfect puzzle pieces. Theodore presses into the warm heaven of Draco’s body with an ardent sigh, and there is no reverence to spare for designer clothing. He delights in besmirching every high-priced stitch and fiber as the shirt crumples and stains beneath the crush of bodies.

 

Each inch gained deeper inside of Draco is won with a careful, well-angled thrust as Theodore eases closer and closer to the point where Draco unravels completely. Theodore knows he has arrived at that point when Draco gasps, arches his back, and reaches for his cock. Theodore splays a hand over Draco’s chest, marveling at the impossibly beautiful creature laid bare before him, aching to connect their bodies even further. His hips snap forward and back with an increasingly swift rhythm and the sound of flesh smacking amorously against flesh echoes through the loft.

 

 _Fuck yes, just like that, don’t stop_ is Draco’s mantra, which he repeats in various different iterations, occasionally throwing in a disparaging epithet, such as _you bastard_ , when Theodore delivers a particularly pleasing blow to his prostate.

 

Theodore doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out. He’d hate to disappoint Draco, but it’s all too much. Too luxuriantly deep, too blissfully tight, too fucking hot. And so he gives in to the inevitable – to the magic seeping from every point at which they are conjoined, to the pleasure that consumes them whole, to the devastating emotion as souls coalesce, to the tidal rush of hot blood through throbbing veins.

 

The world goes slightly out of focus behind hooded eyelids. The sound of Theodore’s own pulse thrums in his ears, drowning out all other sound. Theodore buries himself inside Draco to the very hilt and stills his hips. He doesn’t quite hear it, but sees Draco’s lips forming the words _look at me when you come_ , and Theodore can do nothing else but that of his lover’s will.

 

Every spasm ushers forth a viscous spurt, an exultant shudder, and a corresponding euphoric groan to answer Theodore’s unspoken cry. And Draco is only but a heartbeat behind, following Theodore’s release with yet another one of his own.

 

Still too light-headed and drunk on sex to properly address the fact that Draco has come on the sleeve of his beloved Paul Smith shirt, Theodore laughs breathlessly, hovering over his wrecked lover. He hasn’t even pulled out yet when that wheezy laugh becomes a proper chuckle.

 

Draco narrows his eyes, still trying to catch his breath, and huffs, “What’s so funny?”

 

Theodore drapes his spent body over Draco’s, disregarding the spunk that’s splattered over sweat-slicked skin. He kisses Draco between giggles, relishing the irony before letting him in on the joke. “Do you think Paul Smith is a come-slut?”

 

Draco furrows his brow and scoffs indignantly, “What? How would I know?”

 

Theodore tosses his head back and laughs heartily in earnest, perhaps a bit giddy after orgasm, but nevertheless terribly amused.

 

When realization dawns, Draco gasps dramatically in horror and pushes Theodore off him. His widened eyes frantically inspect the ruins of his shirt in search of the damage. “Where? _Where_? WHERE?”

 

Theodore snorts, mirth lighting up his eyes. “Everywhere.”

 

 

~//~

 

Theodore is sitting at his desk in his skivvies, hunched over the typewriter, casting furtive glances across the room at Draco. His heart flutters with every stolen glimpse of Draco looking so unlike himself – platinum hair in artful disarray, wearing nothing but one of Theodore’s threadbare, oversized band tee shirts, lounging elegantly across the leather sofa, with a nicked cigarette wedged between the lithe fingers of one hand, and in the other hand, pages of manuscript that Helvetica had just returned.

 

Theodore wonders if this is what Draco sees when he looks at him – somebody who is real and unrefined and stunningly beautiful even without the pretense of designer menswear. Theodore bites back a bashful grin and knows that it is indeed what Draco sees when he glances up from his reading material to flash a small, appreciative smile at Theodore for no reason at all.


End file.
